I rode my bike from Mo's palace down the Cherry Creek path to Denver West High with a backpack full of High Life and a brow full of hope. With a few crusty inches of snow on the track and a few scotches in me from dinner I set out for a ceremonial chunder. And gawdammit I made it about 46.5 ounces through my beers before the out flow overtook the inflow and I spewed all over the place, killing my dreams of an altitude sub-10.